Prompt: Solitude
by Selene Jeager
Summary: Monsoon returns from a mission and in the emptiness of his office left to his own devices. As much as he hates to admit it, he hates being alone.


**Prompt: Solitude**  
**Prompt from:** entropyrises (on Tumblr)

The mission were over now and the air on the officer's floor were stale and somber. There was no clatter to be heard from the assassin's feather-like footsteps as he drifted onwards to his office.

The floor were as empty as always. The two new winds, that had been selected only months apart, spent most of their time doing far more extensive missions. These engagements required further time to be placed in their schedules within the killing fields.

Monsoon's were of other specialties.

His were bittersweet and short—just like every life around him. Human life were so fragile and easily snuffed out, and that was exactly what he did.

He would fly into countries overseas like a reaper in the night. That was, undoubtedly, whom he had sold his soul in exchange to continue on his line of work and prolong his existence. That was all he had anymore, right? He shouldn't even be here anymore…

Right?

The silence in the area was deafening for some reason today. There again when wasn't it?

As bitterly as he hated to admit it…the magnetic monstrosity hated to be alone…his mind were much like the name he had given to his pitch black set of twins anchored to his back.

_**Dystopia. **_

Entering his office, he drifted across the room. When he stepped this time it was with purpose and without the tact that he placed into his footing when he were just inches from his targets. He made his feet click across the hardwood floor; it were something.

Without realizing it, he'd made it to the large sheet of glass that encompassed nearly the whole exterior wall of his office. The curtains had been drawn and the sun were setting outside. With everything that he disliked about his contract and job these days he did appreciate the view World Marshall offered at dusk.

The sun would rise and inevitably set again on the mile high city below. It was a cycle that were as absolute as time and comforting in ways. Perhaps as much as he didn't want to admit it…it were rather stunning.

Optics twitched under his visor as he pressed his rubberized palm against the glass. He would leave no fingerprints—he had none left to taint the glass with.

His mind told him it were cold but something lacked and he knew until he returned to the Earth that there always would be. As excellent as technology were, this simply was not his original and sinfully delightful flesh and blood.

He could see his reflection in the glass and perhaps it unnerved him slightly…but more than anything it made him bitter.

_'Ha. Yes, that's all you have left anymore—your bitterness…'_

His hand slid across the glass slightly.

A year ago. Was that all it was now? It seemed like eons now.

All of the rage in the Cambodian had faded to nothing more than longing entirely. His jaw was tight as blood red digits arched up high and with the press of a button his visor's connections severed. Pulling out and lifting up it came off with ease as thick, optical cables untethered themselves and twitched free of their bindings.

Pressing his forehead to the office glass felt so much more brilliant than anything he hoped to touch with his hands regardless of the fact he could adjust the sensitivity within limbs and body. Yes, the full-body cyborg could, indeed, feel but the sensations lacked something and 'authenticity' was the only world he could think to link back to it.

If he had a heart anymore it would have been aching. Instead a sort of phantom pain made up for that sensation—a tightening of artificial musculature.

Being left to his own devices never did end well, but he couldn't run anymore. He were trapped because of his own folly as the senator's pet. It were his own fault—but what else did he really have as a choice?

Being bedridden, blind and limbless seemed a fate worse than death which would inevitably have come for the bitter man when a nurse would "forget" to turn him on his side.

No matter how many bodies he'd ever touched there was no respite—no intimacy. He'd spent his whole life alone running from one comfort to the next. Women, food and murder were all the same. They were all just empty pleasures he used to keep the ache in his heart at bay and now he could no longer occupy his mind with the two former.

All he had left were the haunting and broken memories of his more tactless days of youth. Even without a proper stomach he felt sick right now. He'd been robbed of his senses and left in some sick limbo of an existence. Now he were the best cybertechnology that money could buy and as strong as he could ever have hoped for.

This was what he got for being so hungry for power.

He could punch through concrete without any effort now and leap down from heights that would kill a normal man. It seemed so alluring but to the blissfully ignorant until they realized that the price was too high…

He had nothing now. Nothing at all.

Even breaths had turned rigid without him ever realizing different. Bracketed sobs left the assassin but, of course, no tears came. He couldn't even properly mourn for the loss of his flesh.

Oh yes, this were his punishment for his crimes. Every laugh he'd ever derived off the moment of the kill. The sick satisfaction he got out of skewering someone's entrails over at the end of his sai…

The worst of it were, that even though he realized this, it still made him smile in that way he did that unnerved passersby.

_'If they want something to be afraid of…I'll fucking give them something to be afraid of,'_ his mind echoed. That had been the truth. He were a different-looking child. So much so that he were targeted by children and adults alike in a post-Khmer Rouge society to be the end of every taunt. So much ill-guided anger… All the more reason never to get attached to others. Why should he? They'd all die eventually anyway.

Now with nowhere to run or hide—he wished that he'd of listened to his master. That being said, nothing could be done for him now. He'd made his mistakes and gotten his revenge on the world—maybe he still were?

Now all he had were broken thoughts and the lessons he'd learned the hard way. Not even his revenge on the bastards that'd carved him up originally could sate the anguish for what they'd taken.

Peeling himself off of the window without much purpose to his actions he took a seat. Disorganized papers rested in front him—a pitiful job.

He were going to have to hire someone who could handle the work demand apparently. That being said, he didn't wish to attend to any of the disorganization and chaos tonight.

Surely the emptiness and cold comfort offered by sleep would nurture his weary mind some increment?

_'That's right you bastard. Run away again…'_


End file.
